in a desolate land of pain and loss

the road ahead so dusty dry

the road behind so dank

and the pain of the soul

apparent in every life form

spirits of the dead brushing the skin

of a weary wanderer at night

and the undead picking his pockets

as they walk away with the

skeletons from his closets

he smiles at them in disdain

the denser the graveyard

the darker the core

and all that the daemon can do is

nod his head at the passers by

and hope that the scythe in his hand

doesn’t give away

his dark dreary deserted disposition

and the fact that

he is traveling this essence

in a shroud of pain

masked with a simple word

"love"